


Sink Teeth

by intergalacticju



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, fears, garbage disposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergalacticju/pseuds/intergalacticju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written as a prompt to include irrational fears of the authors as inflicted upon a Sherlock character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink Teeth

The skull is small in his hands, the eye sockets barely big enough for his fingertips to press through and the gnashed bone teeth able to lock around his smallest finger with only a tinge of strain. It's the tiniest bit of bone he's ever examined, as it's only slightly bigger than a pound, and he's only doing it for the bits gashed at the top. The mouse had been captured by an animal first, and he doesn't know if it's supposed to be important or not, but it's fascinating enough to stop the slow crawl of boredom from settling into the base of his skull. He's moved over the sink now, the fluorescents better there than in the main room, and he turns the bone in his hands to get a better angle when it slips.   
  
He doesn't have time to snatch it before it clatters into the sink, disappearing down the gaping black mouth of the bladed drain.   
  
" _Shit_ ." Sherlock Holmes spats in a hushed tone, not like him to curse, frustration creeping into it as pale eyes recount the descent of bone down the garbage disposal. He stares at it for a long time, as if doing so will make it resurface without a scratch. No doubt it had more gashes now, and would make his initial gazing worthless. However, one should not leave skulls in the sink drain.    
  
"Something the matter?" John asks from his seat, pausing from his painfully slow typing long enough to glance back at his flatmate, who is leaning over the edge of the sink with his hands gripping the ledge of it. He doesn't get an answer, and he doesn't know if he expected one or not, so he lingers his gaze until he realizes it's fruitless, and goes back to his laptop. Sherlock keeps peering down, unable to see the white past the black flaps of plastic protection like a sectioned alien mouth, and while he keeps telling himself he needs to retrieve it, he can't get his hands to unclasp the edge he's holding on to.    
  
_This is stupid_ , he thinks to himself, purposefully pushing himself away from the sink so he would at least let go of it. He can't keep his eyes off the drain, no matter how much he wants to.  _I just put my hand in, grab it, and take it out. Simple._   
  
Only as soon as he thinks this, his heart starts to race. Immediately, the idea that it would turn on as soon as he placed his digits beyond the plastic flaps filled his head, causing him to physically wince. He was nowhere near the switch. For safety reasons, it was on the other side of the sink, away from the light switch so one wouldn't accidentally turn it on. Nobody would come to turn it on while he was standing right there. It wouldn't turn on by itself.   
  
_Stupid. Irrational. As if the likelihood of a short circuit powering the blade right as my hand enters is in any way sane or logical._   
  
He took the step forward again, putting his hand out towards the sink before stopping himself again.  _But if it_  does  _happen_ , he mused with a sick grimace twisting his face,  _I'd hate to ruin my dominant hand._  He had been in dangerous situations before; hell, he somewhat enjoyed being in them, though they had irritating side effects. Like bullet holes and semtex, for example. And this was certainly not a  _dangerous_  situation, or comparably so, to what usually constituted as 'fun' between the two insane men residing within 221B Baker Street. It wasn't even the worst outcome he had come to face. The possibility of losing a hand, while something one should never have to face nor mark as 'no big deal', was significantly less than, say, losing your leg. Or losing your life.   
  
Or losing your flatmate.   
  
He swallowed, switching to his left hand as he continued to silently berate himself. He then reached out again, only to pull back sharply.  _Just do it._  He tried again, but it was like an invisible barrier physically stopping him.  _If your hand goes in there, it will turn on and the blades will spin and it will destroy that skull and catch on your fingers and grind against your flesh and bone and tear the digits right off, and then you will never play violin again or-_   
  
He jumped back as if he had been electrocuted, holding his hand against his chest and panting like he had just run laps. This was  _insane_ . Utterly, utterly insane. His heart was ramming wildly in his chest. Small tremors coursed through his hands. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he just simply couldn't do it. Leaning against the table, he breathed forcefully until he gained control, then stormed out as if wronged by the kitchen and threw himself onto the sofa.   
  
"There's a mouse skull in the garbage disposal,"  he stated flippantly. He reached for his netbook and pulled the lid open as if he didn't just have a mental battle with a sink and lost. He knew John would deal with it, even with the exasperated sigh and roll of his eyes. However, as his friend got up to take a gander, he knew there was no way he could watch him do it.   
  
\--   
  
The problem possibly stemmed from his childhood, but he couldn't know for sure. The only thing that made sense was when his cousins had arrived for a surprise visit and the youngest of her children tried to place several plastic toys and her hand in a running blender. Other than that, there was simply no logical explanation for the gripping fear that gaping hole caused.   
  
He gave the briefest of flinches when John turned it on. He always did, just little ones, because the sound always surprised him even when he was expecting it. His hands instinctively curled into fists, as if he were protecting his fingers. Even his toes did it, as if there were any possibility of his feet entering the sink. They were too big, for starters. He never made a noise and John never noticed, so there was no possibility of being warned before he flipped the switch. Why should he? His priorities should be on the blasted thing in front of him, not watching Sherlock while it ran freely.   
  
The grinding of gears and metal and water lasted a couple seconds before it was joined by another sound; that of something large in the drain clacking against the blades and walls of the mouth, creating a resounding screech that echoed throughout the kitchen and into the main room.   
  
Sherlock didn't realize he had screamed, and he certainly didn't realize he had curled himself into a tight ball until the sound stopped and he opened his eyes to find his head pressed between his trembling knees. Every bit of him shook, his breath coming out fast and panicked. His hands were in fists, but they were over his ears and digging into them, black curls of flyaway hair looped between his fingers. The disposal was turned off, and he heard his name, but he stayed where he was while he tried to compose himself.   
  
What was it then, a hand? Would John be able to shoot again? He was going to be absolute rubbish taking him to hospital.   
  
"Stupid.  _Stupid_ ." He muttered, slowly unclenching his knees and letting them sprawl out in front of him. He let go of his ears, but his hands moved to his chest and face, head leaning back as he sucked in breathy gulps. Thinking back, there would have been a lot of screaming and John wouldn't be sitting next to him on the sofa right now if his hand had been caught inside the blades. It was more metallic- a spoon or a knife or some other type of utensil.    
  
"Breathe, Sherlock," John's soothing voice told him, and a paper bag was being handed to him before he smacked it out of his flatmate's hand.   
  
"I  _am_  breathing," he spat, and it took a few more moments of purposeful breaths before he felt himself composed enough to actually deal with this like a human being, and not like a tense spike of raw panic. That he should fear a household device was ridiculous.   
  
"Is it… is it just the noise, or…?" John started after a moment, clearly wanting to discuss it but unknowing if Sherlock did.   
  
"It's all of it. The idea of it. It's all linked anyhow. Completely irrational."   
  
"Well, yes, fears generally are. Sometimes we don't know why."    
  
Sherlock made an irritated sound in his throat, keeping his gaze away from the kitchen area entirely. And while he didn't want to talk about it, and John certainly never pushed for any other answers, he had gained the routine of being warned before it was turned on in future.


End file.
